


The Winter Kissel

by hazelandglasz



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Steve Rogers, Fluff, Food Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9450842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazelandglasz/pseuds/hazelandglasz
Summary: Steve is obsessed with the little café that opens in Little Odessa.By the Russian treat they're selling and by the man selling them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a present for @cantpoisonitout

The Winter Kissel.

Since the little shop opened in Little Odessa, Steve can’t help but go there at least once every two days.

First, because the  [ kissel  ](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c9/Red_Currant_Kissel.jpg) itself quickly proves addictive to someone who, while not exactly a sweet tooth, likes a little bit of sweet in his life.

Second, because there is another kind of sweet that hovers over the counter and intrigues Steve like no man before.

The man who so delicately pours the red juice in little tasting cups for his counterpart--Steve refuses to call the redhead his partner--to offer to every passerby.

The man with the prosthetic arm who manages to create art with every plate and bowl he sends to the customers.

The man with the dazzling smile and the shy eyes that always look away when they meet Steve’s, gosh darnit.

“You should try it with the  _ syrniki _ .”

Steve is roughly shaken from his daydream by the … counterpart’s voice.

How did she get so close without him noticing--scratch that, he knows how.

Still, her discretion is worth noting.

“Beg your pardon?”

Being startled is not a good enough reason to forget his manners.

“You’ve been in the shop every day for the past weeks,” she replies, leaning her hip against Steve’s table and jostling his sketchbook. “And only ordered the Kissel to drink.”

“... Yes?”

“The least you could do is try James’ syrniki.”

“His what?”

The woman has the guts to snicker at him. “The syrniki,” she says, pointing at a plate waiting on the counter. “I’m sure you’ll like it with the Kissel.”

“Are they …  [ pancakes ](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/27/Syrniki.jpg) ?” Steve asks, raising from his seat to have a better look at it, smiling as discreetly as he can when he spots the Man--James, apparently. Suits him. A strong, trustful name.

A name Steve would like to moan around

\--when he spots James looking at them and rushing away, his bun untying itself in a glorious mane.

They must feel so good.

“Oh yeah they’re quite good,” Redhead replies to his obvious comment. “Should I bring you one?”

“Y-yeah, yes. Please.”

“You won’t be disappointed.” She winks at him and struts back in the kitchen.

Steve smacks his forehead against the cover of his sketchbook.

What an idiot.

And if he continues, he’s going to have to find another place for his not-too-sweet-but-still-sweet-enough tooth.

That, and Sam is never going to let it go, now that he’s seen Steve’s numerous sketches.

“Ahem.”

When Steve looks up, it’s not to face Redhead’s bosom and smirk.

Oh no.

It’s to come face to face with an apron stretched beyond belief over an equally beyond belief rainbow shirt that covers a very muscular chest.

And a plate of golden, fluffy pancakes covered with something between a syrup and jam.

Delicious.

“Hi.”

Steve can feel his lips stretching into a beaming smile before he can control it. “Hi.”

“Here, a plate of syrniki with our homemade kissel.,” James says, putting down the plate in front of Steve while avoiding the sketchbook.

“Thank you,” Steve says, voice strangled a little bit. “They look delicious.”

James smiles crookedly. “The recipe has been in my family for years.”

“You’re from Russia?”

The question is out of his mouth before Steve can stop himself or shut himself up with one of the syrnikis.

“My grandparents,” James replies, leaning against the chair opposite Steve’s. “I’m pure Brooklyn.”

“Me too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh.”

Feeling the tip of his ears burning up under James’ gaze, Steve looks away and fills his mouth with one of the syrnikis.

It is delicious, crunchy yet fluffy and melting on his tongue--and it goes wonderfully with the tart taste of the kissel.

Steve lets out a little moan of pleasure before cutting one in half to really take the time to savor it.

A quick glance upwards shows that James is turning a very healthy and attractive shade of pink, his left hand on the back of his neck.

Gosh, it does unspeakable things to his poor shirt and apron--Steve wishes he could simultaneously keep eating and draw him like that …

“You’re an artist?”

James nods towards the sketchbook and the pencil in Steve’s hand--he really needs to do something about his impulses--and Steve can only nod.

“Tell you what,” James says as he sits in front of Steve--slouching in the chair in a very casual yet seductive display--, “your next order is on the house if you draw me.”

“Didn’t peg you as the vain type.”

“I’ve seen Titanic,” James says with his crooked smile that seems directly linked to Steve’s guts, “sounds like a very good way to get to know you.”

“Worth a plate of syrnikis?”

“All of them.”

Steve chuckles and looks down as he can feel his face heating up. “Sounds like a pretty good deal.”

“I drive a hard bargain.”

“You drive hard alright,” Redhead shouts from the kitchen with a cackle, and both men suddenly match the Kissel.

“Don’t … don’t pay attention to Natasha,” James says with an eyeroll. “She loves nothing more than to embarrass me.”

“She did give me your name,” Steve replies, leaning his chin on his fist to look at the man in front of him.

“Call me Bucky.”

“I will.”

James--Bucky’s cheeks are bright red now, and Steve wants to kiss it and feel how warm they are.

Among other things.

“I can meet you there after closing time to … draw you.”

Bucky cocks one eyebrow at Steve before smirking and nodding.

“No sex in the cooking areas!”

“Natasha! Stop talking about sex!”

“I don’t care--no sex. In. The. Cooking. Space!”

“Or we can meet at my place,” Steve rushes to say before one of them repeats the word “sex”.

“Or we can do that.”

Feeling emboldened by Bucky’s smile, Steve dips his finger in the remaining berry juice on his plate and licks it before standing up and whispering in Bucky’s ear, “we can have sex everywhere at my place.”

Bucky grabs the lapel of Steve’s jacket before he can pull away and leave like he intended to.

“I’m counting on it.”

“Deal.”

(The following weeks, Sam and Natasha start a betting pool about which one of them will find the couple in a compromising position.

Bucky’s service dog wins, but they don’t need to know that.)


End file.
